I am having the most delicious day, today!
It started out ominously enough, what we me getting up earlier than I normally do. However, it was not to go to work. Work has decided to oh-so-kindly finally upgrade my ancient computer that I think came out sometime in the Mesozoic era, and was perhaps trampled on my a brachiosaurus before being handed down to me full of unused files and spyware, and so that is GREAT news for someone who would like to open e-mail attachments in under 2.5 minutes. What with 90% of my job coming from e-mail attachments. Getting an unofficial day off because I had to overnight my computer back to the New Jersey location to exchange it for the new one that will be overnighted to me tomorrow is just a big icing on the big slab of extra frosting cyber cake!
I like words.
So anyway. I got up EARLY on my unofficialbutofficial day off to go brave the Social Security office again, thanks to some advice from April, (HI APRIL! GREAT ADVICE!) and got there 40 minutes before they opened for the day to get my damn SQ78536865 number. It would have been 60 minutes, except I *may* have gotten lost on the way. On the way to the office that’s not all that hard to find. The office where I was just at last week. I *may* have called my mother in tears to get her to Google (and if you know my mother, you know that asking her to Google something on the COMPUTER is asking a lot) the damn Social Security office because I was pretty sure it had evaporated. Mostly likely because someone threw holy water on it.
Sadly, It was still there, slightly south of where I had expected to find it, (apparently not enough holy water was thrown, but at least it’s moving in the right direction) and I went in, armed with The Official Marriage License, OMG, a certified COPY of the marriage license, the temporary marriage license, the official form I had printed out and filled in from the Social Security website, my passport, my birth certificate, my driver’s license, reading material, and the rights to my first born child, and also what’s left of my soul.
I only had to wait for 20 minutes after they opened, before my number was called and I came face to face with the SAME FUCKING DRONE who was so rude to me last week. I smiled at her, and did not shove any papers at her, and handed things to her (including The Official Marriage License, OMG) as she asked for them.
She seemed exceptionally cold, and rebuffed any smile I tried to give her. Fortunately, she could not send me away in tears because I came with a full armory of Official Crap OMG, this time.
At one point she abruptly got up, mid-typing, and disappeared, with no explanation. She came back, handed me a piece of paper, and said, “Please sign here and here if this information is correct.” She looked annoyed that I bothered to read it over before signing.
“Erm.” I said, summoning all of my courage, “This is actually NOT correct.”
The drone finally made eye contact with me. The HORROR! You have never seen such condescending hatred in your whole life!
“I actually would like to be Princess Golashes Funasaurus,” I explained. (It has a nice ring to it, no?) “Not Princess in Funasaurus,” I continued.
“It would have been helpful to have told me that earlier,” the drone sneered.
“Well, I didn’t know,” I said. “I have it written on this official form, here,” I said, sliding it across the counter.
“You should have given it to me earlier,” she said, evilness oozing off of every syllable.
“You didn’t ask for it, “ I replied snottily, finally getting pissed, remembering how she snapped at me the week before when I tried to give her the paper before her royal droneness was ready for them.
She rolled her eyes, took the form, THREW IT IN THE TRASH, and then proceeded to re-fill out my application. She got up, got the paper for me to sign again, and the deal was done. She said I could expect my card in the mail in two weeks.
I almost skipped away in joy, but I stood there smiling and said, “THANKS! Have a great day!”
She did not even look up. I kid you not. There was no way she missed it, I was intentionally loud. She was intentionally rude, and I thought many hateful things, but I smiled and walked out, and am now waiting for my card to arrive in the mail.
I considered it a success, though stressful, and ran some errands, and then took myself to McDonalds for lunch to celebrate my uofficialbutofficial day off. Ask me if I’m even sorry. Go ahead.
Am I?
No! No I am not even sorry! Thanks for asking.
Then I came home and played on-line. Then I checked my voicemail at work, returned one phone call, cuddled with Sugar, took a nap, woke up to Sugar snarling at Tatum who had decided to attack her head while she slept, and played on the computer some more.
Not bad.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Working Hard for the ...? It's Certainly Not "the Money!"
I realize I have been gone a long time, but I pass the blame entirely, straight onto work which has been a huge fucking imposition on my life, recently.
There have been many late nights and many groggy mornings, the only good result being a legitimate reason to forgo running. And The Funasaurus, being a supportive husband (HUSBAND! Tee hee) has sacrificed his running time, too, in order to sleep in with me.
Plus, it’s getting cold and dark out, and really, I didn’t need any more reasons not to run. I basically feel it’s a sign from the universe that the whole “exercise” thing was a very bad idea, indeed.
Meanwhile, our real marriage license has arrived, but I have not gone back to the Social Security office because just thinking of that place makes me shiver and my eyes tear up just a little.
I think I shall only be Princess Funasaurus, socially.
So I have absolutely no fun stories to tell you (not that that will keep me from blathering on and on) because WORK is the only thing I’ve been doing recently. Last week my monthly, bi-weekly, and random reports all happened to become due right at the same time, thus creating the Perfect Spreadsheet Storm, and my eyes! Oh, my poor, strained little eyes! Sometimes I have trouble driving home from work because they are still looking for itty-bitty formulas in itty-bitty cells and totally overlook the “DANGER! SINKHOLE! ROAD CLOSED!” signs because they are enormous and it is just TOO MUCH for my dilated little pupils.
Somewhere in all this mess, Shooting Star and I decided to go ahead and start a classics book club, because we are huge English major dorks, trying to justify our BAs. So if you live in Denver and want to re-read Jane Austen, Mark Twain, and Eugene O’Neil and such, send me an e-mail and come join our group of dorks! There will be wine! (We may be dorks, but we still appreciate a good Chianti.)
There have been many late nights and many groggy mornings, the only good result being a legitimate reason to forgo running. And The Funasaurus, being a supportive husband (HUSBAND! Tee hee) has sacrificed his running time, too, in order to sleep in with me.
Plus, it’s getting cold and dark out, and really, I didn’t need any more reasons not to run. I basically feel it’s a sign from the universe that the whole “exercise” thing was a very bad idea, indeed.
Meanwhile, our real marriage license has arrived, but I have not gone back to the Social Security office because just thinking of that place makes me shiver and my eyes tear up just a little.
I think I shall only be Princess Funasaurus, socially.
So I have absolutely no fun stories to tell you (not that that will keep me from blathering on and on) because WORK is the only thing I’ve been doing recently. Last week my monthly, bi-weekly, and random reports all happened to become due right at the same time, thus creating the Perfect Spreadsheet Storm, and my eyes! Oh, my poor, strained little eyes! Sometimes I have trouble driving home from work because they are still looking for itty-bitty formulas in itty-bitty cells and totally overlook the “DANGER! SINKHOLE! ROAD CLOSED!” signs because they are enormous and it is just TOO MUCH for my dilated little pupils.
Somewhere in all this mess, Shooting Star and I decided to go ahead and start a classics book club, because we are huge English major dorks, trying to justify our BAs. So if you live in Denver and want to re-read Jane Austen, Mark Twain, and Eugene O’Neil and such, send me an e-mail and come join our group of dorks! There will be wine! (We may be dorks, but we still appreciate a good Chianti.)
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Bureaucracy VS the Princess
Yesterday was a horrible day that ended on a better note than the one on which it began. Today has started out not so much better, what with my computer freezing and eating my entire post for this morning, without saving it.
Hateful, hateful computer.
But back to yesterday. I began the day by gathering our temporary marriage license, my driver’s license, my passport, my completed form ZQ6749w7/b, my book, (which IS a bit self-righteous, but the author does have a good voice and is entertaining, despite using more unnecessary metaphors than there are stars in the sky) and my (now working!) iPod, and headed off to the Social Security office to begin the name change process.
At 9:15 AM, I walked in and got a ticket, marked, “#S155, Estimated wait time 60 minutes” and looked around in the dim fluorescent lighting and chose a hard plastic chair next to a seemingly sleeping homeless guy, and crancked up my iPod to listen to the Hos in Different Area Codes.
Around 10:15 I pulled out my earplugs to start listening for the numbers being called. “E24, E24, please approach the counter.”
E24?!?!?! WTF? I have S155!
I went back to my book, but kept an ear out for the next call.
Ten minutes later, “E25, ticket E25, please come to the desk.”
Are you kidding me?
At 11:00 I heard them call G240. It was then that I realized that the Social Security office was working on a system more complex than any traditional alpha-numeric organization than I had ever seen. I began pondering, how far after E25 and G240 do you suppose S155 falls?
My answer finally came AT NOON, when I finally heard, “S154, please come to the desk.”
Hooray! Surely, I must be next!
But sadly, G248 was next.
I eventually heard my number at 12:15. I bolted to the counter, undeterred, grinning wildly, “Hi! I’m here to become Mrs. Funasaurus! Would you like to see my driver’s license? How about my passport?” I said gaily, shoving my pile of documents under the counter.
“Not yet, m’am,” said the drone, and she glared at me until I retrieved them. “Social Security number?” she asked.
I gave it to her, and then waited for what felt like ten minutes as she typed it in. I’m quite sure I only gave her nine digits, but wow, either she had to enter it four hundred times, or she dashed off a quick note to her drone husband debating the democratic system.
“Marriage license,” she finally asked.
I passed it through the window.
“No, the official one.”
“But? This IS the official one,” I said, waving the temporary one. “See, it has our signatures, our pastor’s signature, the time, date…” She just looked at me. “I was told this one functioned exactly the same as the permanent one,” I continued.
“No, I need the one that was issued by the state.
"The state gave me THIS ONE."
"Sorry. S156? S156, please approach the window."
"But, but, but... three hours!... Missing work?" I peeped.
S156 pushed me out of the way.
I was... Not Happy. Nay, I was downright disgruntled. I called The Funasaurus to explain that I would have to take more time off of work (time that I don't technically have) and do it all again. With the "official" marriage license. And then I got my shit together and as professionally and collected as possible, I sobbed like a blubbering idiot because that was a miserable fucking waste of three hours of my life that I will never get back.
Fortunately, that night, we went up to my parents' house to see some wedding pictures they had gotten, and we were greeted at the door with enormous glasses of wine, and so my night ended with ice cream and extra cabernet, and so life is not all bad.
But Social Security? I've got my eye on you.
Hateful, hateful computer.
But back to yesterday. I began the day by gathering our temporary marriage license, my driver’s license, my passport, my completed form ZQ6749w7/b, my book, (which IS a bit self-righteous, but the author does have a good voice and is entertaining, despite using more unnecessary metaphors than there are stars in the sky) and my (now working!) iPod, and headed off to the Social Security office to begin the name change process.
At 9:15 AM, I walked in and got a ticket, marked, “#S155, Estimated wait time 60 minutes” and looked around in the dim fluorescent lighting and chose a hard plastic chair next to a seemingly sleeping homeless guy, and crancked up my iPod to listen to the Hos in Different Area Codes.
Around 10:15 I pulled out my earplugs to start listening for the numbers being called. “E24, E24, please approach the counter.”
E24?!?!?! WTF? I have S155!
I went back to my book, but kept an ear out for the next call.
Ten minutes later, “E25, ticket E25, please come to the desk.”
Are you kidding me?
At 11:00 I heard them call G240. It was then that I realized that the Social Security office was working on a system more complex than any traditional alpha-numeric organization than I had ever seen. I began pondering, how far after E25 and G240 do you suppose S155 falls?
My answer finally came AT NOON, when I finally heard, “S154, please come to the desk.”
Hooray! Surely, I must be next!
But sadly, G248 was next.
I eventually heard my number at 12:15. I bolted to the counter, undeterred, grinning wildly, “Hi! I’m here to become Mrs. Funasaurus! Would you like to see my driver’s license? How about my passport?” I said gaily, shoving my pile of documents under the counter.
“Not yet, m’am,” said the drone, and she glared at me until I retrieved them. “Social Security number?” she asked.
I gave it to her, and then waited for what felt like ten minutes as she typed it in. I’m quite sure I only gave her nine digits, but wow, either she had to enter it four hundred times, or she dashed off a quick note to her drone husband debating the democratic system.
“Marriage license,” she finally asked.
I passed it through the window.
“No, the official one.”
“But? This IS the official one,” I said, waving the temporary one. “See, it has our signatures, our pastor’s signature, the time, date…” She just looked at me. “I was told this one functioned exactly the same as the permanent one,” I continued.
“No, I need the one that was issued by the state.
"The state gave me THIS ONE."
"Sorry. S156? S156, please approach the window."
"But, but, but... three hours!... Missing work?" I peeped.
S156 pushed me out of the way.
I was... Not Happy. Nay, I was downright disgruntled. I called The Funasaurus to explain that I would have to take more time off of work (time that I don't technically have) and do it all again. With the "official" marriage license. And then I got my shit together and as professionally and collected as possible, I sobbed like a blubbering idiot because that was a miserable fucking waste of three hours of my life that I will never get back.
Fortunately, that night, we went up to my parents' house to see some wedding pictures they had gotten, and we were greeted at the door with enormous glasses of wine, and so my night ended with ice cream and extra cabernet, and so life is not all bad.
But Social Security? I've got my eye on you.
Monday, October 08, 2007
There is a Severe Lack of Pink in the NFL
For someone who does not really like sports, I spent an awful lot of time at sporting events, this weekend. On Saturday we scored tickets to the Rockies games, which, for anyone living under a rock with no high speed wireless connection, was a huge deal. Because the Rockies have basically sucked for their entire existence. And so to not only make it to the playoffs, but to actually sweep the Phillies, was quite a feat.
That was fun, especially watching the very drunk guys next to us who danced on the railing, tempting death with their endless stream of Patron and horrible gyrating,
Sunday we went to the Broncos game. The Funasaurus is a die-hard fan. I am an I-like-to-go-to-the-games-when-a-free-ticket-falls-into-my-lap fan. A free ticket did appear when The Funasaurus’ best friend (with whom he has season tickets) up and went to Italy, deciding that doodling along the Mediterranean and eating copious amounts of olives and pizza was better than a football game. (I can’t say I disagree. I also can’t say I don’t like double-negatives.)
So I got his ticket, and The Funasaurus and I went along to the game, where we promptly watched the Bronco’s get their asses served to them on a silver platter. And then a platinum platter. And then a diamond-studded platter dipped in melted rubies for good measure. And then it rained on us.
It was so very Hemmingway. 41-3.
Ouch.
We stayed for the whole thing, and then we trudged home (in the rain) stopping at Tattered Cover on the way back to buy this book because I keep hearing amazing reviews about it, but I’m always skeptical of bestsellers. I am suspicious of their my-life-is-so-great-aren’t-you-jealous-this-didn’t-happen-to-you condescending tone.
I will let you know.
That was fun, especially watching the very drunk guys next to us who danced on the railing, tempting death with their endless stream of Patron and horrible gyrating,
Sunday we went to the Broncos game. The Funasaurus is a die-hard fan. I am an I-like-to-go-to-the-games-when-a-free-ticket-falls-into-my-lap fan. A free ticket did appear when The Funasaurus’ best friend (with whom he has season tickets) up and went to Italy, deciding that doodling along the Mediterranean and eating copious amounts of olives and pizza was better than a football game. (I can’t say I disagree. I also can’t say I don’t like double-negatives.)
So I got his ticket, and The Funasaurus and I went along to the game, where we promptly watched the Bronco’s get their asses served to them on a silver platter. And then a platinum platter. And then a diamond-studded platter dipped in melted rubies for good measure. And then it rained on us.
It was so very Hemmingway. 41-3.
Ouch.
We stayed for the whole thing, and then we trudged home (in the rain) stopping at Tattered Cover on the way back to buy this book because I keep hearing amazing reviews about it, but I’m always skeptical of bestsellers. I am suspicious of their my-life-is-so-great-aren’t-you-jealous-this-didn’t-happen-to-you condescending tone.
I will let you know.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Proving I am No Vegetarian
Last night I convinced The Funasaurus that our counters were just too gross to clean and then cook and that we absolutely MUST go out to dinner, instead of making something quick at home and then writing the thank-you notes like we swore we would do. (I swore I would still do some when we got home.) I vetoed all the fast food options, saying that we needed to eat something a little lighter and more nutritious. So we end up at a nice-ish restaurant, and The Funasaurus orders salmon with green beans and carrots and I order a half pound burger. With extra cheese. And cheesy mashed potatoes as my side.
“I don’t fault you, cheeseburgers are the most fabulous food ever,” began The Funasaurus, “I just didn’t realize large chunks of red meat fell into the ‘light and nutritous’ category…” I did not reply, because I was busy shoveling it into my face as fast as it would go. But rest assured, I thought hateful thoughts.
I polished that huge section of cow right off. It was the weirdest craving, but I felt extremely satisfied. And I did write a couple of thank-you notes last night, and told The Funasaurus I would just jog extra hard in the morning.
Naturally, when the alarm went off at 6:45 I immediately turned it off and cuddled The Funasaurus in a compromising position so that his attempts at getting up to go jog were quite short-lived. We slept in until 7:30, at which point I wandered downstairs and made myself some cereal.
The Funasaurus and I looked at each other very seriously, and said, “We will definitely go jogging tomorrow.” (HA! It’s Saturday! Damn dirty lies!)
Anyone want to take bets on if we make it? I will bet you a large steak with a side of fries.
“I don’t fault you, cheeseburgers are the most fabulous food ever,” began The Funasaurus, “I just didn’t realize large chunks of red meat fell into the ‘light and nutritous’ category…” I did not reply, because I was busy shoveling it into my face as fast as it would go. But rest assured, I thought hateful thoughts.
I polished that huge section of cow right off. It was the weirdest craving, but I felt extremely satisfied. And I did write a couple of thank-you notes last night, and told The Funasaurus I would just jog extra hard in the morning.
Naturally, when the alarm went off at 6:45 I immediately turned it off and cuddled The Funasaurus in a compromising position so that his attempts at getting up to go jog were quite short-lived. We slept in until 7:30, at which point I wandered downstairs and made myself some cereal.
The Funasaurus and I looked at each other very seriously, and said, “We will definitely go jogging tomorrow.” (HA! It’s Saturday! Damn dirty lies!)
Anyone want to take bets on if we make it? I will bet you a large steak with a side of fries.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Getting Ideas
Thanks to everyone for your input on my IPod dilemma. It is now working, though only from The Funasaurus' computer. And I have remembered to bring it on our morning jog exactly ZERO times, because my brain is just not functioning that early in the morning (and by "early" I mean, 7:30, sometimes 7:45...we're getting lazy) and it's not part of my routine, yet.
Plus, the first thing I downloaded was a bunch of early riverboat jazz, and the calliope sound just doesn't seem quite like hard-core running tunes. It's more like a drink-mint-julips-until-your-eyes-bubble-with-happiness-as-you-sit-in-a-rocker-on-a-large-front-porch sound.
The Funasaurus and I have taken our newlywed status straight to... the guest room closet, which we have slowly been cleaning out (the college backpacks went, the dancing hamsters were kept) in preparation for The Funasaurus' sister and her boyfriend to move in with us this weekend. They are going to be here for two to four months while their house is being built, and we decided we should probably give them a bit of space to hang some clothes.
We found a bunch of random stuff while purging, besides TWO dancing hamsters, we also found a Miller Lite tap handle from the old Coors stadium, which brought out a certain nostaligic twinke in The Funasaurus' eye, especially considering how well the Rockies are doing right now, an electronic whoopee cushion, complete with remote control, (kept that!) an unbelieveable quantity of gently-used gift bags that I just couldn't bear to throw away, knowing that my friends had paid $4.99 just for the nice presentation of a gift, and a blond wig from last year's Halloween. (The Funasaurus wore it.) Which brings up the ever-pertinent question, what are we going to do this year?
Any suggestions? I will give you lots of kisses if you can think up a clever costume for us. We like the homemade variety, no store bought stuff, we need it to look very ghetto. But also very fabulous.
Much like Kermit and Piggy from last year.
Plus, the first thing I downloaded was a bunch of early riverboat jazz, and the calliope sound just doesn't seem quite like hard-core running tunes. It's more like a drink-mint-julips-until-your-eyes-bubble-with-happiness-as-you-sit-in-a-rocker-on-a-large-front-porch sound.
The Funasaurus and I have taken our newlywed status straight to... the guest room closet, which we have slowly been cleaning out (the college backpacks went, the dancing hamsters were kept) in preparation for The Funasaurus' sister and her boyfriend to move in with us this weekend. They are going to be here for two to four months while their house is being built, and we decided we should probably give them a bit of space to hang some clothes.
We found a bunch of random stuff while purging, besides TWO dancing hamsters, we also found a Miller Lite tap handle from the old Coors stadium, which brought out a certain nostaligic twinke in The Funasaurus' eye, especially considering how well the Rockies are doing right now, an electronic whoopee cushion, complete with remote control, (kept that!) an unbelieveable quantity of gently-used gift bags that I just couldn't bear to throw away, knowing that my friends had paid $4.99 just for the nice presentation of a gift, and a blond wig from last year's Halloween. (The Funasaurus wore it.) Which brings up the ever-pertinent question, what are we going to do this year?
Any suggestions? I will give you lots of kisses if you can think up a clever costume for us. We like the homemade variety, no store bought stuff, we need it to look very ghetto. But also very fabulous.
Much like Kermit and Piggy from last year.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Playing with Toys... Unsucessfully
Do you want to see one of the coolest presents I got for the wedding?
Here.
Bask in it's fabulousness. I was feeling very lucky when I received it.
Do you see how is it pretty and shiny and cranberry colored? Do you see how is is sleek and lovely and yummy? I kind of imagine it to be like a delicate little metallic wafer, it is so sleek and delicious.
What you do NOT see, however, is how it hates me.
We own two computers. TWO! I have spent quite a bit of money and time downloading all sorts of fabulous pickled herring songs onto both of them, only to have the IPod REJECT BOTH OF THEM.
Mother fucker. I am so frustrated I fantasize about smashing the delicate slice of cranberry colored fabulousness with a jackhammer. ... Strapped to a bulldozer.
It taunts me.
I have play lists, oh yes I do. But one computer apparently is not new enough, and the other computer doesn't let the IPod do anything. It may be broken. I'm not sure. Can an IPod freeze like a computer? It doesn't do much anymore. I push on buttons, and it just sits there all pretty and cranberry and whatnot, but doesn't DO anything. No more menus.
Never were any songs.
The Universe is back to its old ways.
And I am angry. Of course, I am also newly married and all happy about being in wuv, making my anger sort of Funasaurus-love-filled, thus rendering my fury a bit less... Zeus-like. And a bit more whiney.
So far, The Funasaurus is realizing married life is much like committing to a pissed-off child who needs a nap but will not take one unless you make my Ipod work oh PLEASE for the love of God make my Ipod work, and he has decided to deal with the whole thing by retreating to the nether world of the NFL in HD.
If anyone has a recommendation for making my new toy come back from the dead, or strategy for whatever Madden game The Funasaurus is playing these days, please feel free to come over. And please bring wine.
Here.
Bask in it's fabulousness. I was feeling very lucky when I received it.
Do you see how is it pretty and shiny and cranberry colored? Do you see how is is sleek and lovely and yummy? I kind of imagine it to be like a delicate little metallic wafer, it is so sleek and delicious.
What you do NOT see, however, is how it hates me.
We own two computers. TWO! I have spent quite a bit of money and time downloading all sorts of fabulous pickled herring songs onto both of them, only to have the IPod REJECT BOTH OF THEM.
Mother fucker. I am so frustrated I fantasize about smashing the delicate slice of cranberry colored fabulousness with a jackhammer. ... Strapped to a bulldozer.
It taunts me.
I have play lists, oh yes I do. But one computer apparently is not new enough, and the other computer doesn't let the IPod do anything. It may be broken. I'm not sure. Can an IPod freeze like a computer? It doesn't do much anymore. I push on buttons, and it just sits there all pretty and cranberry and whatnot, but doesn't DO anything. No more menus.
Never were any songs.
The Universe is back to its old ways.
And I am angry. Of course, I am also newly married and all happy about being in wuv, making my anger sort of Funasaurus-love-filled, thus rendering my fury a bit less... Zeus-like. And a bit more whiney.
So far, The Funasaurus is realizing married life is much like committing to a pissed-off child who needs a nap but will not take one unless you make my Ipod work oh PLEASE for the love of God make my Ipod work, and he has decided to deal with the whole thing by retreating to the nether world of the NFL in HD.
If anyone has a recommendation for making my new toy come back from the dead, or strategy for whatever Madden game The Funasaurus is playing these days, please feel free to come over. And please bring wine.
Friday, September 28, 2007
I Wish EVERY Day Could Be Princess Day
So I am going to cheat today, and just post some more pictures. Because I am still reeling from the weekend, my throat is still sore, and I still can’t feel two of my toes.
And I’d do it again, it was awesome.
Angela, since you asked, here’s the closest thing I have to a full-length dress picture, hopefully there'll be more to come:
(Also goes to prove, if you pay enough people enough money, anyone can look like a princess! New motivation to seek my fortune… lotto counter, here I come!)
LilyCurly, here’s what the lights and fake flowers that hung down from the ceiling looked like close up:
Kind of creating this effect in the evening:
Also, did I mention we had a floating couch at our wedding? Because we so did, and it so rocked. Mostly because it was filled with champagne, spanikopita, and a tux-ed up Funasaurus.
And I’d do it again, it was awesome.
Angela, since you asked, here’s the closest thing I have to a full-length dress picture, hopefully there'll be more to come:
(Also goes to prove, if you pay enough people enough money, anyone can look like a princess! New motivation to seek my fortune… lotto counter, here I come!)
LilyCurly, here’s what the lights and fake flowers that hung down from the ceiling looked like close up:
Kind of creating this effect in the evening:
Also, did I mention we had a floating couch at our wedding? Because we so did, and it so rocked. Mostly because it was filled with champagne, spanikopita, and a tux-ed up Funasaurus.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
That's MRS. Funasaurus to You!
Hello, there! Sorry for the delay, I know I've been absent, again. But I went and got m'self hitched and was just a little distracted! It went amazingly well, I actually got to be a princess for a weekend and I ate up every second of it with a silver spoon.
The ceremony went really well, despite forcing all of my guests to sit through a little fall rain shower (read: torrential downpour) as I sat in my cozy little cabin, waiting for it to stop so that it wouldn't mess up my pretty updo. At one point the pastor came back and asked if perhaps it was time to move things inside, what with the thunderhead clouds rolling in, and I tried to look as serious as I possibly could as I pretended to ponder the decision before saying, “I think we should stay outside. I've always wanted an outdoor wedding.”
And that's the story of how I got my dream wedding and made all my friends hate me all at the same time.
We started off the morning at 7:00 AM at the salon (whoo hooo, my bridesmaids already hated me even before I made them go stand outside in the rain!) but we got the champagne flowing, so it softened the blow.
The Funasaurus and I had an amazing time, circulating, drinking, dancing, and eating The Most Amazing Cake Ever.
If I haven't already explained, The Funasaurus proposed by hiding my ring inside a copy of Pride & Prejudice. Only the most awesomest love story ever. And somehow we found a baker who was just open-minded enough (and talented!) to recreate the moment in a cake.
Blow me, Carol Wilkens and anyone else who said my desserts weren't good enough to trade for in 2nd grade. You're sorry you didn't stay in touch now, aren't ya?
Photos courtesy of the lovely Mrs. Shooting Star, who not only doesn't hate me, but bought me and the bridesmaids bagels on the morning of the wedding. Many kisses to you!
The day was a success. I can't believe it's over, after all that planning. But thanks to everyone for their support, and Meno, here is our most bizarre wedding gift to date, that I thought you would appreciate as my cyber maid-of-honor.
(It's a dragon rain-gutter-attachment-thing-y. Because my mom's friend was high when she went shopping for us. [Seriously.] And because nothing says, "Romance" like a ceremic reptile enema. Not that I'm complaining. It's awesome.)
The ceremony went really well, despite forcing all of my guests to sit through a little fall rain shower (read: torrential downpour) as I sat in my cozy little cabin, waiting for it to stop so that it wouldn't mess up my pretty updo. At one point the pastor came back and asked if perhaps it was time to move things inside, what with the thunderhead clouds rolling in, and I tried to look as serious as I possibly could as I pretended to ponder the decision before saying, “I think we should stay outside. I've always wanted an outdoor wedding.”
And that's the story of how I got my dream wedding and made all my friends hate me all at the same time.
We started off the morning at 7:00 AM at the salon (whoo hooo, my bridesmaids already hated me even before I made them go stand outside in the rain!) but we got the champagne flowing, so it softened the blow.
The Funasaurus and I had an amazing time, circulating, drinking, dancing, and eating The Most Amazing Cake Ever.
If I haven't already explained, The Funasaurus proposed by hiding my ring inside a copy of Pride & Prejudice. Only the most awesomest love story ever. And somehow we found a baker who was just open-minded enough (and talented!) to recreate the moment in a cake.
Blow me, Carol Wilkens and anyone else who said my desserts weren't good enough to trade for in 2nd grade. You're sorry you didn't stay in touch now, aren't ya?
Photos courtesy of the lovely Mrs. Shooting Star, who not only doesn't hate me, but bought me and the bridesmaids bagels on the morning of the wedding. Many kisses to you!
The day was a success. I can't believe it's over, after all that planning. But thanks to everyone for their support, and Meno, here is our most bizarre wedding gift to date, that I thought you would appreciate as my cyber maid-of-honor.
(It's a dragon rain-gutter-attachment-thing-y. Because my mom's friend was high when she went shopping for us. [Seriously.] And because nothing says, "Romance" like a ceremic reptile enema. Not that I'm complaining. It's awesome.)
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Ahoy, Landlovers. I Be Crazy Busy.
GAH! I know I have been delinquent in posting, but things are getting rather hectic around here. Starting with the fact that I am vaguely sick with something mysterious and large amounts of AirBorne and chicken soup are keeping it at bay but not getting rid of it, completely. It probably didn't help that I spent Saturday night on a ghet-to party bus going from club to club for a bachelorette party. (Not mine, someone else's.)
This bus. Oh y'all. You cannot even imagine, but it was GHET-TO! We started out the evening classily enough, with some jungle juice and a penis pinata in someone's backyard. But then things went downhill. The bus arrived. And it was basically a run-down city bus. Except the seats had been reupholstered (sometime circa 1974) in BROWN CORDUROY and had not been cleaned since, thus forcing you to choose between the seats with crusty stains and seats that had significant holes and forced you to sit upon a spring.
I went for the spring up the butt. If you had seen the stains, I don't doubt you would have made the same decision.
The party bus also had some of those revolving colored light things, except one side was missing, so instead of creating a continual effect, a twirling red, yellow, and blue pattern kind of search lighted its way around the bus.
Plus, the floor was sticky.
Plus, the driver was this very large dude sporting a mountain man beard and OVERALLS. The kind that makes it look like you just came back from baling hay. Who the heck wears farmer overalls? Especially to drive a party bus? He was fairly surly, too, and I was pretty sure he'd don a hockey mask at some point and slaughter us all out in a corn field before the night was over, because that was the exact look he seemed to be going for.
So that was Saturday. Sunday we ran errands, Monday my French friend got into town, and after a few laps around DIA I retrieved her (how the hell did society ever function before cell phones????) and yesterday I worked while The Funasaurus took her shopping and to the movies. Then I died of jealousy and bailed on work to go join her at the mall. Because no one should have to shop alone, I thought, selflessly.
Yar. It be National Talk Like a Pirate Day.
My new favorite joke, stolen from E:
Q: What kind of socks do pirates wear?
A: Arrrrrrr-gyle.
Heh.
This bus. Oh y'all. You cannot even imagine, but it was GHET-TO! We started out the evening classily enough, with some jungle juice and a penis pinata in someone's backyard. But then things went downhill. The bus arrived. And it was basically a run-down city bus. Except the seats had been reupholstered (sometime circa 1974) in BROWN CORDUROY and had not been cleaned since, thus forcing you to choose between the seats with crusty stains and seats that had significant holes and forced you to sit upon a spring.
I went for the spring up the butt. If you had seen the stains, I don't doubt you would have made the same decision.
The party bus also had some of those revolving colored light things, except one side was missing, so instead of creating a continual effect, a twirling red, yellow, and blue pattern kind of search lighted its way around the bus.
Plus, the floor was sticky.
Plus, the driver was this very large dude sporting a mountain man beard and OVERALLS. The kind that makes it look like you just came back from baling hay. Who the heck wears farmer overalls? Especially to drive a party bus? He was fairly surly, too, and I was pretty sure he'd don a hockey mask at some point and slaughter us all out in a corn field before the night was over, because that was the exact look he seemed to be going for.
So that was Saturday. Sunday we ran errands, Monday my French friend got into town, and after a few laps around DIA I retrieved her (how the hell did society ever function before cell phones????) and yesterday I worked while The Funasaurus took her shopping and to the movies. Then I died of jealousy and bailed on work to go join her at the mall. Because no one should have to shop alone, I thought, selflessly.
Yar. It be National Talk Like a Pirate Day.
My new favorite joke, stolen from E:
Q: What kind of socks do pirates wear?
A: Arrrrrrr-gyle.
Heh.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Gifts Worthy of Royalty. AKA Me.
A little note from your neighborhood vaguely-green-minded-when-it's-convenient-Princess....
If you are invited to a wedding and generous enough to go out and get a gift for the couple, perhaps from their registery, please think twice about having it shipped to them. Yes, it's convenient for you (hey you can even do it from your computer while eating Cheetos before getting dressed in the morning... hypothetically speaking) and it's convenient for the couple because it arrives at their home and they can open it whenever they so choose. But you must know that stores with names that sound kind of like, I don't know, Grate & Carol, or Head, Half, & Heeyond, hate the Earth.
They will wrap your gift in crazy crumbly wrapping material that is rather like paper but with a weird, plastic-y wax-y finish that makes you think it's not really recycleable and use enough of that stuff to wrap a beluga whale three times over for, oh, two wine glasses.
However, not to sound like an ingrate, (because I am not! I love gifts very much! Thank you to anyone who has ever gotten me a gift, ever! Lots of kisses to you!) we have been delighted by the small trickle of boxes that have come in over the past couple of weeks. What I find funny is that we now have the complete collection of red, white, AND champagne glasses that we registered for and exactly ZERO of the knives, forks, and spoons that we had also put on our registry. Apparently my alcoholic tendencies are a little more, erm, well-known than I had realized.
But. GREAT! Now y'all don't have to drink Chateau-Neuf out of coffee mugs, anymore, when you come to visit me. (Because yeah, I serve Chateau-Neuf all the time.)
You will still have to eat the mashed potatoes with your fingers, though. Sorry.
This weekend will be full of joyful activities such as cleaning. And creating space for aforementioned new army of stemware. And paying vendors more money, because apparently our accounts are not sufficiently drained. And borrowing baby stuff because somewhere in my giddy, oh-I-just-got-engaged-life-is-wonderful-perhaps-I-will-even-feel-maternal-one-day state, I somehow managed to offer our only guest room to my friend who is bringing her six month old baby to stay with us for a week. From France. Because I must have been high when I thought a six month olds adjust to an eight hour time change gracefully.
So, wish me luck. And at the very least, I shall be able to drink quite a lot of wine before having to ever do a load of dishes. Life really could be a lot worse.
If you are invited to a wedding and generous enough to go out and get a gift for the couple, perhaps from their registery, please think twice about having it shipped to them. Yes, it's convenient for you (hey you can even do it from your computer while eating Cheetos before getting dressed in the morning... hypothetically speaking) and it's convenient for the couple because it arrives at their home and they can open it whenever they so choose. But you must know that stores with names that sound kind of like, I don't know, Grate & Carol, or Head, Half, & Heeyond, hate the Earth.
They will wrap your gift in crazy crumbly wrapping material that is rather like paper but with a weird, plastic-y wax-y finish that makes you think it's not really recycleable and use enough of that stuff to wrap a beluga whale three times over for, oh, two wine glasses.
However, not to sound like an ingrate, (because I am not! I love gifts very much! Thank you to anyone who has ever gotten me a gift, ever! Lots of kisses to you!) we have been delighted by the small trickle of boxes that have come in over the past couple of weeks. What I find funny is that we now have the complete collection of red, white, AND champagne glasses that we registered for and exactly ZERO of the knives, forks, and spoons that we had also put on our registry. Apparently my alcoholic tendencies are a little more, erm, well-known than I had realized.
But. GREAT! Now y'all don't have to drink Chateau-Neuf out of coffee mugs, anymore, when you come to visit me. (Because yeah, I serve Chateau-Neuf all the time.)
You will still have to eat the mashed potatoes with your fingers, though. Sorry.
This weekend will be full of joyful activities such as cleaning. And creating space for aforementioned new army of stemware. And paying vendors more money, because apparently our accounts are not sufficiently drained. And borrowing baby stuff because somewhere in my giddy, oh-I-just-got-engaged-life-is-wonderful-perhaps-I-will-even-feel-maternal-one-day state, I somehow managed to offer our only guest room to my friend who is bringing her six month old baby to stay with us for a week. From France. Because I must have been high when I thought a six month olds adjust to an eight hour time change gracefully.
So, wish me luck. And at the very least, I shall be able to drink quite a lot of wine before having to ever do a load of dishes. Life really could be a lot worse.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Sappy Stories About Home
Last night The Funasaurus and walked through a model house. Because that is what we do for fun. Because we are fly like that.
It was a very pretty house, and sent my mind all a-twirlin' with thoughts of columns! And built in bookshelves! And pretty cabinets! And somehow, between fantasies of cherry hard wood floors and shower big enough to have an orgy in (complete with seating!) somehow I was able to ignore facts like: The Funasaurus is between jobs. I am going back to school to further plunge us into debt. We are about to have a wedding, which has already sent us down the debt spiral.
But why should I worry about those little details when there are nickel-brushed faucet heads to be had?
I have always fantasized about my dream house, and it has changed over the years (read: no longer PINK!) but overall there are some consistent features. Warm colors, lots of wood, a place for a huge-ass Christmas tree, comfy furniture, a closet the size of our current house, an attached garage, and secret passageways. Oh, and goats in the back yard.
Is that really so much to ask?
The house we saw yesterday had the potential for some of those things (though the goat would have to be ridiculously small and not very hungry with the 4 square feet of yard we'd get) and I deigned to get my hopes up.
My brother and I were raised in an amazing house, and I still see it just about nightly in my dreams. I've always kind of wanted to have a house like that, although with today's market and my distinct lack of a winning lottery ticket, that is a pretty far-off dream. But it was the kind of house that felt magical, built by an architect and his crazy botanist wife who deep-root-fertilized the heck out of all the trees on the property to the point where one of the “ornamental” dogwoods had grown so large we could climb it as high as our roofline, and a weeping cherry tree (nicknamed for me because of the PINK flowers that tended to bloom around my birthday) was actually larger than the entire house. No exaggeration. It was enormous. I remember crying desperately when it was pruned because I thought it had gotten a haircut, and I revered long hair more than just about anything else on this planet.
I have always been rather... girly.
We didn't have goats, but we did have an orchard that would attract deer, including baby fawns with spots, and there were tons of wild rabbits that I adored, I think because their ears reminded me of long hair (do you see a theme?) and which I could admire much more closely once my cat had killed them and brought them to a door as a trophy. The blood was a bit off-putting, but they'd never stand still long enough for me to touch them when they were alive, a la Sleeping Beauty, which is always how I saw it going in my head.
I'm not really sure where I'm going with this tangent. Just reminiscing. But I think most people have a tendency to have some really special memories from their childhood home. Does anyone else have these kinds of stories?
It was a very pretty house, and sent my mind all a-twirlin' with thoughts of columns! And built in bookshelves! And pretty cabinets! And somehow, between fantasies of cherry hard wood floors and shower big enough to have an orgy in (complete with seating!) somehow I was able to ignore facts like: The Funasaurus is between jobs. I am going back to school to further plunge us into debt. We are about to have a wedding, which has already sent us down the debt spiral.
But why should I worry about those little details when there are nickel-brushed faucet heads to be had?
I have always fantasized about my dream house, and it has changed over the years (read: no longer PINK!) but overall there are some consistent features. Warm colors, lots of wood, a place for a huge-ass Christmas tree, comfy furniture, a closet the size of our current house, an attached garage, and secret passageways. Oh, and goats in the back yard.
Is that really so much to ask?
The house we saw yesterday had the potential for some of those things (though the goat would have to be ridiculously small and not very hungry with the 4 square feet of yard we'd get) and I deigned to get my hopes up.
My brother and I were raised in an amazing house, and I still see it just about nightly in my dreams. I've always kind of wanted to have a house like that, although with today's market and my distinct lack of a winning lottery ticket, that is a pretty far-off dream. But it was the kind of house that felt magical, built by an architect and his crazy botanist wife who deep-root-fertilized the heck out of all the trees on the property to the point where one of the “ornamental” dogwoods had grown so large we could climb it as high as our roofline, and a weeping cherry tree (nicknamed for me because of the PINK flowers that tended to bloom around my birthday) was actually larger than the entire house. No exaggeration. It was enormous. I remember crying desperately when it was pruned because I thought it had gotten a haircut, and I revered long hair more than just about anything else on this planet.
I have always been rather... girly.
We didn't have goats, but we did have an orchard that would attract deer, including baby fawns with spots, and there were tons of wild rabbits that I adored, I think because their ears reminded me of long hair (do you see a theme?) and which I could admire much more closely once my cat had killed them and brought them to a door as a trophy. The blood was a bit off-putting, but they'd never stand still long enough for me to touch them when they were alive, a la Sleeping Beauty, which is always how I saw it going in my head.
I'm not really sure where I'm going with this tangent. Just reminiscing. But I think most people have a tendency to have some really special memories from their childhood home. Does anyone else have these kinds of stories?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Seasons of Love
So life is fairly much back on track, a little bleach taking care of the towels (that does not mean you should stop protecting your groin from my steel toed boot, Funasaurus friend. It's the principle of the thing.) and The Funasaurus generously gave up a couple of precious PlayStation hours to take my clattering car up to the mechanic's to see what the damage was.
I am still trying to work, though it is hard because I am continuing to obsess over manicure appointments and centerpiece logistics.
What have I become?
The weather has shifted, (although I hear it was just a cold front, and we are due for some nice 80s later this week) and so I turned on the heating pad, yesterday. Neither cat showed any interest at all. Tatum was busy obsessing over his mouse, what with our morning routine being purely a game of not squashing Tatum who insists on wrapping himself around our ankles squealing in anguish a meow that is as close to “meooooouse!” as possible. (The “s” is apparently tricky, in feline speak.) So I picked him up, and OH NO MUTHAFUCKA he was having NONE OF THAT, and all ten claws and 70 million little teeth were bared in a PUT-ME-DOWN-LEST-SOMEONE-HAPPEN-TO-BE-HEADED-DOWNSTAIRS-RIGHT-THIS-VERY-SECOND-TO-GET-ME-A-FAUX-MOUSE-BEEE-YATCH!
And then I set him on the heating pad, and it was like his little butt had a magnet in it. The crying stopped, the bared teeth were put away as his mighty kitty derrière swung down for full heating pad contact.
He may have had a little kitty orgasm, I'm not sure.
Sugar continues to be pissed at us all, and so our fall has begun.
I am still trying to work, though it is hard because I am continuing to obsess over manicure appointments and centerpiece logistics.
What have I become?
The weather has shifted, (although I hear it was just a cold front, and we are due for some nice 80s later this week) and so I turned on the heating pad, yesterday. Neither cat showed any interest at all. Tatum was busy obsessing over his mouse, what with our morning routine being purely a game of not squashing Tatum who insists on wrapping himself around our ankles squealing in anguish a meow that is as close to “meooooouse!” as possible. (The “s” is apparently tricky, in feline speak.) So I picked him up, and OH NO MUTHAFUCKA he was having NONE OF THAT, and all ten claws and 70 million little teeth were bared in a PUT-ME-DOWN-LEST-SOMEONE-HAPPEN-TO-BE-HEADED-DOWNSTAIRS-RIGHT-THIS-VERY-SECOND-TO-GET-ME-A-FAUX-MOUSE-BEEE-YATCH!
And then I set him on the heating pad, and it was like his little butt had a magnet in it. The crying stopped, the bared teeth were put away as his mighty kitty derrière swung down for full heating pad contact.
He may have had a little kitty orgasm, I'm not sure.
Sugar continues to be pissed at us all, and so our fall has begun.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Hello, Autumn! When Did You Get Here?
Sorry I wasn't around much last week. Wedding planning is slowly sucking out my soul. Fortunately, it's a it's a sparkly, flowers and tiara-laden soul-sucking, thus making it slightly more bearable.
I would have written something over the weekend, but it was my bachelorette party, so... I wasn't really sober enough to type. Plus, I was up in the mountains, drinking pink champagne and sitting in a hot tub and watching chick flicks, so I was a soggy, sappy mess, as well. And in one of the few moments of sobriety (10:00 AM, post Starbucks run, pre-liquor store run) I decided we should go on a little hike and be healthy and get some fresh mountain air and whatnot, so I drove my car up to this trail head and went over a tiny (crater-sized) pothole and bottomed out quite badly and then there was a horrible cracking sound a couple moments later and then it sounded like I was driving a hot rod. I got out and concluded that I had indeed crumpled my muffler to the point that the large metal can had a hole TORN INTO IT, and so, you know, not good. Of course, there aren't too many mechanics open on a Sunday morning in the mountains, so I got to drive my screaming Honda Civic back down to Denver, where I pried the keys out of a moaning Funasaurus' hand (he also had his bachelor party this weekend, and was curled up in the fetal position on the couch when I got home) and exchanged them for his nice, not-so-noisey car and went to a bridal shower for another friend.
When I got home, The Funasaurus had managed to order himself some Pizza Hut, so we cuddled and watched Terminator 3 and compared stories. The Funasaurus had a quite excellent time playing volleyball all day with a bunch of stinky boys, and then they showered and went out to sing karaoke, (as you may remember, a favorite pastime of The Funasaurus) whereupon they bequeathed him prettty much the awesomest shirt ever. I don't have a picture, but it is not hard to explain. You just have to know that The Funasaurus loves Journey with unbridled passion.
On the front it says, “Steve Perry is my hero.”
On the back it says, “Don't stop believin'”
awesome.
So anyway, I was feeling rather pleased with his whole bachelor party, right until I took my little germ-a-phobe self upstairs to get ready for bed. Whereupon I had a little breakdown upon entering the bathroom.
Whichever of you fuckheads decided that it would be a good idea to wiped your grass-stained stinky man feet on my NEW WHITE TOWELS FROM MY BRIDAL SHOWER THAT HAVE CUTE LITTLE KITTY FACES EMBROIDERED IN THE CORNER should feel warned that you will die a horrid and misery-filled death as soon as I find out who you are.
Also, thanks for not rinsing out MY SHOWER with all the dirt you somehow still had on you, despite the vast quantities tracked in over my bedroom carpet.
There's an extra special hell just waiting for you. Just FYI.
...
And me and my Lysol wipes will be waiting for you there.
Otherwise, great weekend! Now it's back to running and switching the air from air conditioning to the heater because suddenly the 90 degree days are gone and Sugar was a bit shivery this morning when the household temperature crept under her comfort threshold of 71.
Happy fall!
I would have written something over the weekend, but it was my bachelorette party, so... I wasn't really sober enough to type. Plus, I was up in the mountains, drinking pink champagne and sitting in a hot tub and watching chick flicks, so I was a soggy, sappy mess, as well. And in one of the few moments of sobriety (10:00 AM, post Starbucks run, pre-liquor store run) I decided we should go on a little hike and be healthy and get some fresh mountain air and whatnot, so I drove my car up to this trail head and went over a tiny (crater-sized) pothole and bottomed out quite badly and then there was a horrible cracking sound a couple moments later and then it sounded like I was driving a hot rod. I got out and concluded that I had indeed crumpled my muffler to the point that the large metal can had a hole TORN INTO IT, and so, you know, not good. Of course, there aren't too many mechanics open on a Sunday morning in the mountains, so I got to drive my screaming Honda Civic back down to Denver, where I pried the keys out of a moaning Funasaurus' hand (he also had his bachelor party this weekend, and was curled up in the fetal position on the couch when I got home) and exchanged them for his nice, not-so-noisey car and went to a bridal shower for another friend.
When I got home, The Funasaurus had managed to order himself some Pizza Hut, so we cuddled and watched Terminator 3 and compared stories. The Funasaurus had a quite excellent time playing volleyball all day with a bunch of stinky boys, and then they showered and went out to sing karaoke, (as you may remember, a favorite pastime of The Funasaurus) whereupon they bequeathed him prettty much the awesomest shirt ever. I don't have a picture, but it is not hard to explain. You just have to know that The Funasaurus loves Journey with unbridled passion.
On the front it says, “Steve Perry is my hero.”
On the back it says, “Don't stop believin'”
awesome.
So anyway, I was feeling rather pleased with his whole bachelor party, right until I took my little germ-a-phobe self upstairs to get ready for bed. Whereupon I had a little breakdown upon entering the bathroom.
Whichever of you fuckheads decided that it would be a good idea to wiped your grass-stained stinky man feet on my NEW WHITE TOWELS FROM MY BRIDAL SHOWER THAT HAVE CUTE LITTLE KITTY FACES EMBROIDERED IN THE CORNER should feel warned that you will die a horrid and misery-filled death as soon as I find out who you are.
Also, thanks for not rinsing out MY SHOWER with all the dirt you somehow still had on you, despite the vast quantities tracked in over my bedroom carpet.
There's an extra special hell just waiting for you. Just FYI.
...
And me and my Lysol wipes will be waiting for you there.
Otherwise, great weekend! Now it's back to running and switching the air from air conditioning to the heater because suddenly the 90 degree days are gone and Sugar was a bit shivery this morning when the household temperature crept under her comfort threshold of 71.
Happy fall!
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Weddings and Assholes
My friend Shooting Star's wedding was this past weekend, and while she was a gorgeous bride, and the wedding went perfectly, there is some danger in attending weddings so close to your own. You end up thinking crazy thoughts like, “Dammit, why didn't WE think of having a watermelon carved to look like a bouquet of flowers? I wonder if there's time to find a local... fruit sculptor?”
Fortunately, Shooting Star and I have spent the last, oh, FIFTEEN months going over most of our Very Important Details meticulously. So while the watermelon bouquet threw me for a bit of a loop, the fabulous favors did not. In fact, I sat there sniffing smugly, thinking, “Ha HA, I am totally copying her on this fantastic idea.”
Seeing as how the only duplicate guests we will have will be us (me and The Funasaurus) and Shooting Star and her new husband (husband!) we figured it'll be o.k. Plus, we went with different... scents. So it's not totally the same. Sheesh.
Meanwhile, today is The Funasaurus' first glorious day of freedom, aka total bliss, aka transitional time-off between jobs. With visions of total slovenliness dancing through his head, he spent the weekend playing volleyball, watching football, playing video games, and going to his fantasy football draft and not showering once. His life is good.
And like the good little wife-to-be, what did I do on his first delicious morning of nothing to do? I woke him up at the butt crack of dawn to go running with me, is what I did! Because I'm an asshole. A lonely, I-don't-like-to-run-alone asshole.
Then I got in the shower, and The Funasaurus decided to run to Target to get the new season of The Office on DVD, because he's pretty sure that's the best way to spend his first day off. While there, he picked up a box of my beloved Uncrustables, because he noticed I was out and was not going to have any for my lunch today.
I am the most undeserving asshole, EVER.
Fortunately, Shooting Star and I have spent the last, oh, FIFTEEN months going over most of our Very Important Details meticulously. So while the watermelon bouquet threw me for a bit of a loop, the fabulous favors did not. In fact, I sat there sniffing smugly, thinking, “Ha HA, I am totally copying her on this fantastic idea.”
Seeing as how the only duplicate guests we will have will be us (me and The Funasaurus) and Shooting Star and her new husband (husband!) we figured it'll be o.k. Plus, we went with different... scents. So it's not totally the same. Sheesh.
Meanwhile, today is The Funasaurus' first glorious day of freedom, aka total bliss, aka transitional time-off between jobs. With visions of total slovenliness dancing through his head, he spent the weekend playing volleyball, watching football, playing video games, and going to his fantasy football draft and not showering once. His life is good.
And like the good little wife-to-be, what did I do on his first delicious morning of nothing to do? I woke him up at the butt crack of dawn to go running with me, is what I did! Because I'm an asshole. A lonely, I-don't-like-to-run-alone asshole.
Then I got in the shower, and The Funasaurus decided to run to Target to get the new season of The Office on DVD, because he's pretty sure that's the best way to spend his first day off. While there, he picked up a box of my beloved Uncrustables, because he noticed I was out and was not going to have any for my lunch today.
I am the most undeserving asshole, EVER.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Funasaurus Household Takes Karaoke Very Seriously
The Funasaurus is switching firms, pursuing better opportunities, and also conveniently taking off a nice, long, six weeks before starting his new job. With visions of Play Station III football dancing through his head.
Last night, some of his current co-workers decided to take him out for one, final hurrah. AKA- karaoke. The Funasaurus loves karaoke. I do not love karaoke, but I love The Funasaurus so I went for a little while. It was supposed to start at 8, but with nary a music menu book in sight at 7:55, you could sense something was wrong. We finally wrangled it out of the waitress that, well, the normal karaoke DJ guy got into a little (fist)fight with their bartender the other night, and had been promptly fired. They had a new chick starting tonight, this would be the first time she had ever DJ-ed. New chick was looking kind of frantic, in front of her computer, her lower lip squished between her teeth.
We ordered another round and got to chatting, but when we happened to look over again, new chick was gone.
This can't be good, I thought, as I watched a sad little look start to creep over The Funasaurus' face.
When the waitress was next wrangled (wouldn't that be a great B- country song? "Wrangling Waitresses?" If you are a B- country star, you may have it. Just don't forget to give me a shout out between thanking mama and the lord for your amazing gift.) we found out that apparently the computer had died and the DJ had run back to her office (!!! Far be it from me to question the way people run their businesses, but I had a good time imagining what a karaoke DJ office would look like; I pictured lots of headphones hanging on the walls and turntables where the desk should be. And a few disco balls stacked around the corners. That'd be an awesome office.) to get another computer to see if they could save the motherboard, or something like that.
I didn't need a magic 8 ball to tell me the outlook was Not Good, so I polished off my chardonnay, kissed The Funasaurus, and went home around 9:30, wishing him good karaoke ju-ju.
At midnight I rolled over and realized I was still alone in my bed, and thought, “Perhaps they were able to get the karaoke machine working, after all!” and At 1:00 when I rolled over, still alone, I was sure of it.
At 2:00 I couldn't go back to sleep. Don't the bars close at 1:30 on Wednesday nights?
2:30 I decided to get up and check my e-mail, seeing as how I wasn't sleeping anymore, and finally around 2:45 I heard the garage door go up, and so I decided not to call 911 to report a missing Funasaurus. Because, you know, I'm chill and not at all paranoid like that.
The Funasaurus was actually sober, however his coworkers were apparently NOT, and so he ended up not just staying late to sing, but then having to give them rides home. Who ends up playing DD on THEIR night out??? But we finally got to sleep. And guess what? We so missed the alarm to go running this morning.
I'm not even sorry.
Last night, some of his current co-workers decided to take him out for one, final hurrah. AKA- karaoke. The Funasaurus loves karaoke. I do not love karaoke, but I love The Funasaurus so I went for a little while. It was supposed to start at 8, but with nary a music menu book in sight at 7:55, you could sense something was wrong. We finally wrangled it out of the waitress that, well, the normal karaoke DJ guy got into a little (fist)fight with their bartender the other night, and had been promptly fired. They had a new chick starting tonight, this would be the first time she had ever DJ-ed. New chick was looking kind of frantic, in front of her computer, her lower lip squished between her teeth.
We ordered another round and got to chatting, but when we happened to look over again, new chick was gone.
This can't be good, I thought, as I watched a sad little look start to creep over The Funasaurus' face.
When the waitress was next wrangled (wouldn't that be a great B- country song? "Wrangling Waitresses?" If you are a B- country star, you may have it. Just don't forget to give me a shout out between thanking mama and the lord for your amazing gift.) we found out that apparently the computer had died and the DJ had run back to her office (!!! Far be it from me to question the way people run their businesses, but I had a good time imagining what a karaoke DJ office would look like; I pictured lots of headphones hanging on the walls and turntables where the desk should be. And a few disco balls stacked around the corners. That'd be an awesome office.) to get another computer to see if they could save the motherboard, or something like that.
I didn't need a magic 8 ball to tell me the outlook was Not Good, so I polished off my chardonnay, kissed The Funasaurus, and went home around 9:30, wishing him good karaoke ju-ju.
At midnight I rolled over and realized I was still alone in my bed, and thought, “Perhaps they were able to get the karaoke machine working, after all!” and At 1:00 when I rolled over, still alone, I was sure of it.
At 2:00 I couldn't go back to sleep. Don't the bars close at 1:30 on Wednesday nights?
2:30 I decided to get up and check my e-mail, seeing as how I wasn't sleeping anymore, and finally around 2:45 I heard the garage door go up, and so I decided not to call 911 to report a missing Funasaurus. Because, you know, I'm chill and not at all paranoid like that.
The Funasaurus was actually sober, however his coworkers were apparently NOT, and so he ended up not just staying late to sing, but then having to give them rides home. Who ends up playing DD on THEIR night out??? But we finally got to sleep. And guess what? We so missed the alarm to go running this morning.
I'm not even sorry.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
The Important Things in Life
So the running has been going: Not Well.
Where The Funasaurus is gleefully going further faster and dropping belt notches daily, I am apparently going SLOWER and not getting as far as I used to and am feeling rather bloated, just in general.
Fucking running.
....
Huh. I thought I was going to have more to say about that, but I'm out. That kind of summed it up.
So, that leaves me with nothing else to talk about except, dum dum dum THE WEDDING. Sorry, suckers.
The wedding. Ah. It is exciting (for me) and all-consuming (for me and everyone around me). It haunts my dreams (nightmares weekly about forgetting to send out invites) it creeps into work (surely ordering leaf-shaped escort cards can be worked in amongst the spreadsheets) it pushes its way into inappropriate conversations, “Oh, I'm so sorry this transition to a new job is hard on you, baby. Now would you please tell me if we should go with the hearts or bells on the disposable cameras for the tables at the reception?” and it is slowly taking over my identity, in so far as the ONLY thing people know to say to me, anymore, is, “How's the wedding planning going?” Despite the fact that just I told them, “Fine, nothing really new,” only yesterday.
Fortunately, we got the big decisions out of the way early, (wine selection, photographer, caterer, invitations, wine selections) and now we're just down to the little details.
I discovered this picture on a wedding website a little while ago:
And now cannot live without aspen/birch table number holders.
Sadly, all the aspen I have found has been half-eaten by elk, and so are unusable. I am not quite yet to the point of chopping down a perfectly healthy tree for my table number holders, but let's just see how much progress I've made by T-1 week. Trees may suffer. ... I'm just saying!
I'm currently looking into candles that cost less than $40 for their somewhat bark-ish looking wax exterior, and bribing any local landscapers I know. (Which = 0 currently, but there are still a couple of weeks to go.)
The Funasaurus and I are still having rounds about our first dance song. My love of Nelly and Shaggy are not blending well with his love of Air Supply and Journey. There is no common ground. Though we do both desperately love "Cherish" by Madonna, it is a little tricky to dance to. Try it in your living room, sometime. We did. Last night. Not so sway-y.
And then there's the question of hair. (...I think that was the sound of my last male reader clicking the hell away from this page) To go up messy, or structured? Am I a lazy curl kind of girl (I do like shabby chic) or a tight bun kind of girl? (I do want to be a librarian.) These are the things I obsess over, and I think The Funasaurus is about ready to elope. In sweats. To the rhythm of my Honda Civic's loose tailpipe. With only a dusty, freakishly smiley, dangling strawberry from my rearview mirror as decoration.
Where The Funasaurus is gleefully going further faster and dropping belt notches daily, I am apparently going SLOWER and not getting as far as I used to and am feeling rather bloated, just in general.
Fucking running.
....
Huh. I thought I was going to have more to say about that, but I'm out. That kind of summed it up.
So, that leaves me with nothing else to talk about except, dum dum dum THE WEDDING. Sorry, suckers.
The wedding. Ah. It is exciting (for me) and all-consuming (for me and everyone around me). It haunts my dreams (nightmares weekly about forgetting to send out invites) it creeps into work (surely ordering leaf-shaped escort cards can be worked in amongst the spreadsheets) it pushes its way into inappropriate conversations, “Oh, I'm so sorry this transition to a new job is hard on you, baby. Now would you please tell me if we should go with the hearts or bells on the disposable cameras for the tables at the reception?” and it is slowly taking over my identity, in so far as the ONLY thing people know to say to me, anymore, is, “How's the wedding planning going?” Despite the fact that just I told them, “Fine, nothing really new,” only yesterday.
Fortunately, we got the big decisions out of the way early, (wine selection, photographer, caterer, invitations, wine selections) and now we're just down to the little details.
I discovered this picture on a wedding website a little while ago:
And now cannot live without aspen/birch table number holders.
Sadly, all the aspen I have found has been half-eaten by elk, and so are unusable. I am not quite yet to the point of chopping down a perfectly healthy tree for my table number holders, but let's just see how much progress I've made by T-1 week. Trees may suffer. ... I'm just saying!
I'm currently looking into candles that cost less than $40 for their somewhat bark-ish looking wax exterior, and bribing any local landscapers I know. (Which = 0 currently, but there are still a couple of weeks to go.)
The Funasaurus and I are still having rounds about our first dance song. My love of Nelly and Shaggy are not blending well with his love of Air Supply and Journey. There is no common ground. Though we do both desperately love "Cherish" by Madonna, it is a little tricky to dance to. Try it in your living room, sometime. We did. Last night. Not so sway-y.
And then there's the question of hair. (...I think that was the sound of my last male reader clicking the hell away from this page) To go up messy, or structured? Am I a lazy curl kind of girl (I do like shabby chic) or a tight bun kind of girl? (I do want to be a librarian.) These are the things I obsess over, and I think The Funasaurus is about ready to elope. In sweats. To the rhythm of my Honda Civic's loose tailpipe. With only a dusty, freakishly smiley, dangling strawberry from my rearview mirror as decoration.
Monday, August 27, 2007
They Really Should Install an Escalator
Last week The Funasaurus informed me that we'd be getting up at four thirty A-frickin-M on my precious, precious Saturday to go climb a mountain. And not just any mountain, but a 14er. Though The Funasaurus does not hike, he does enjoy a goal. So, much like going swimming for the first time during a tsunami, he went from not hiking at all to going up one of the tallest mountains in the state.
I like hiking as much as the next Colorado transplant, but I am not so into the still-dark wake-up. As evidence by the fact that I nearly chewed The Funasaurus' head off at 4:45 AM because he put too many Cheese-Its into a plastic baggie. (According to me, and my erratic baggie quotients, anyway. According to him there is no such thing as “too many Cheese-Its.”)
So we were in the car before 5, and picked up The Funasaurus' co-worker who is my NEW HERO because she had gotten in from a night of severe drinking and debauchery only two hours before, and had that weavy look of someone who is perhaps not completely sober yet, and we drove up to the mountain and began hiking. (Well, we hiked. G weaved, took a cigarette break, chugged some water, and began weaving, again. Needless to say, G did not quite make it up the whole mountain. But she made it really far, at least to 13,000 feet, which still qualifies for Rock Star Status in my book.)
So here, we made it, despite having to boulder up the last 200 feet or so with some mild altitude sickness.
Do you not love my trendy, trendy striped pants?
So we deemed ourselves hard core, us and our Cheese-Its.
And it was pretty, even when we weren't on top of the world.
Sunday I spent the day laying around, moaning about my aching butt. Because, for whatever reason, my legs are fine, but my ass is sore as hell.
I like hiking as much as the next Colorado transplant, but I am not so into the still-dark wake-up. As evidence by the fact that I nearly chewed The Funasaurus' head off at 4:45 AM because he put too many Cheese-Its into a plastic baggie. (According to me, and my erratic baggie quotients, anyway. According to him there is no such thing as “too many Cheese-Its.”)
So we were in the car before 5, and picked up The Funasaurus' co-worker who is my NEW HERO because she had gotten in from a night of severe drinking and debauchery only two hours before, and had that weavy look of someone who is perhaps not completely sober yet, and we drove up to the mountain and began hiking. (Well, we hiked. G weaved, took a cigarette break, chugged some water, and began weaving, again. Needless to say, G did not quite make it up the whole mountain. But she made it really far, at least to 13,000 feet, which still qualifies for Rock Star Status in my book.)
So here, we made it, despite having to boulder up the last 200 feet or so with some mild altitude sickness.
Do you not love my trendy, trendy striped pants?
So we deemed ourselves hard core, us and our Cheese-Its.
And it was pretty, even when we weren't on top of the world.
Sunday I spent the day laying around, moaning about my aching butt. Because, for whatever reason, my legs are fine, but my ass is sore as hell.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
So I have come to the somewhat-difficult decision to defer school for a year. I am kind of bummed, I had really psyched myself up to get back into academia, not to mention the investment in a brand new librarian wardrobe of cat eye glasses and gray sweaters that will now have to lie in wait for another year. But with the way this job is going, I am just not going to have time to get a Masters and get married and, I don't know, SLEEP.
On top of all of these life changes, The Funasaurus has decided to switch firms, so he's going to be “between jobs” around the time of our wedding, and now there's murmurings of, “Maybe we should look into one of those gorgeous new homes that they're building down the street.” Because that won't take much time or money. On top of THAT, The Funasaurus' sister is moving back to town and IS going to be buying a new home pretty soon, but in the meantime she and her boyfriend are moving into our spacious 1200 square foot house for a couple of months, and so, you know, that'll be... cozy.
I think I'm glad I never watched Big Brother.
And now I've got to get back to the job that usurped my higher education.
On top of all of these life changes, The Funasaurus has decided to switch firms, so he's going to be “between jobs” around the time of our wedding, and now there's murmurings of, “Maybe we should look into one of those gorgeous new homes that they're building down the street.” Because that won't take much time or money. On top of THAT, The Funasaurus' sister is moving back to town and IS going to be buying a new home pretty soon, but in the meantime she and her boyfriend are moving into our spacious 1200 square foot house for a couple of months, and so, you know, that'll be... cozy.
I think I'm glad I never watched Big Brother.
And now I've got to get back to the job that usurped my higher education.
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